


The Maker's Lost

by ami20nat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Circle Mages, Depression, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Humor, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mage Trevelyan (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Mages (Dragon Age), References to DAO and DA2, Romance, Self-Discovery, Templars (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24991033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami20nat/pseuds/ami20nat
Summary: Some mages are powerful, and some are weak. Some are good. Some wish to be left alone. Some try to be heroes. Some can’t face the danger of their very nature. Some would see the whole world and everyone in it burn for the hatred they’ve endured. At least one doesn’t fit squarely into any of these boxes - or so she thinks. But the outbreak of war and the arrival of a new terror that threatens all of Thedas thrusts her into a spotlight she believed she never wanted, forcing her to face the disappointments of her past and to rediscover the parts of her she'd tried to bury long ago.I fell more in love with my Trevelyan mage than any other character I've ever played and felt compelled to put her story to [digital] paper. This work may deviate from canon to accommodate some of the backstories and scenes that have played out in my mind. I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed imagining it. I love to write, but this is the first work I'll be publishing for others to read.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29





	1. Prologue

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights.  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.  
Make me to rest in the warmest places._

_O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me.  
Stand only in places You have blessed.  
Sing only the words You place in my throat._

_My Maker, know my heart:  
Take from me a life of sorrow.  
Lift me from a world of pain.  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride._

_My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace.  
Touch me with fire th—_

“ _Ahem._ ”

Rosamunde paused in her prayer and looked over her shoulder to find the source of the interjection, a young housemaid with large, wide-set eyes and pointed ears protruding from a mop of red hair.

“I’m s-sorry to disturb you, Your Reverence, but Messere Rollins bade me tell you that the Templars have arrived. They are waiting for you and…and... _the girl_... at the servants’ entrance to the manor.”

The maid’s intonation of the words riled her, but Rosamunde decided against chiding her for it. The past eighteen hours had been rough for everyone, after all, and magic did have a frightening reputation in this part of the world, a notion not entirely unwarranted. “The servants’ entrance? I suppose the Lord and Lady have not changed their minds about seeing their daughter off, then?”

“I do not think so, Your Reverence.”

Rosamunde let out a long, sad sigh and turned back toward the statue of Andraste that stood at the head of the grotto. Even the stone face of the Prophet seemed mournful today, her crystalline eyes, which usually shone brilliantly in the sun, pools of dingy slate from the somber mood that had seized the estate. “Very well. Rollins may tell the Templars that I’ll have her along shortly.”

When the sound of the maid’s footsteps crunching the gravel path had faded away, Rosamunde bowed her head and resumed her prayer.

_Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval._

_O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death.  
Make me one within Your glory.  
And let the world once more see Your favor._

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world,  
And comfort is only Yours to give._

“Maker, I beg of you—fill her heart with the strength and comfort only You can provide.”

Her prayer finished, she stood up slowly, her stiff, aging bones protesting as she did, and made her way back through the gardens to the manor. Though she’d always found consolation in these verses of the Chant of Light, they did little to hearten her in the moment, and she found her feet dragging, desperate to delay this wretched day.

***

On a typical day, the ground floor of the estate would be buzzing with activity. Home to the kitchen, scullery, and laundry, it was here that the servants began their long, laborious days before the break of dawn. Today, though, was different, as Bann Trevelyan had ordered most of the staff to remain in their quarters, permitting only the most essential of them to leave their rooms to carry out their daily duties. And they had all been less than happy to oblige as tales of the little girl’s magical abilities had spread among the servants like wildfire, each version of the story becoming more distorted and exaggerated—and, in the servants’ eyes, more entertaining— than the last. Rosamunde had overheard some of the gossip as she ate her dinner the night before.

“I heard ‘t our little lady set fire to the gardens when her maid insisted she come in for her lessons. Maker knows being a kitchen maid is hard work, but ‘t least we’re not having ‘t deal with the spoiled brat. Though now they’re carrying her off to the Circle I suppose Hanna’ll be without work, and with a little babe of her own and no father ‘t care for it. Do you think they’ll keep her on?”

“The gardens!” another exclaimed. “Fynn told me she burned one o’ the prized horses alive an’ almost took down the barn with it. An’ Hanna should’a known better when she spread ‘er legs for that brute in the tavern. Far as I’m concerned she’ll get what she deserves.”

“‘Tis not just Hanna that ought to be concerned for her job, but all of us! The Lord an’ Lady’ve been havin’ a row ever since that Chantry woman broke the news. From what I hear, the Lord is blamin’ his wife for the magic, though she swears to Andraste it didn’t come from her line. She’s from Tantervale you know. They’re strict Chantry folk there—it must’ve come from somewhere down the Lord’s blood.”

Rosamunde had rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Beyond the fact that the little girl’s manifestation of magic hadn’t even involved fire, or any other harmful energy for that matter, anyone who stepped foot outside could see the stables still stood and that the gardens were undisturbed. Of course, to the servants the truth didn’t matter—it was all an excitement, a drama to break up the dull monotony of their lives. She couldn’t fault them for wanting an escape from the banality of their days, but she didn’t appreciate that their amusement came at the expense of an innocent child.

By now she’d climbed the narrow back stair to the second floor of the manor where the family’s sprawling apartments were, and had started down the long gallery that stretched along the length of the house. The entire corridor was awash with bright mid-morning light thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the eastern wall. Absently, she wiped away a bead of sweat at her temple that had escaped the Chantry cap she wore. The windows along the gallery offered an unimpeded view of the immaculately-maintained front lawn and canal, as well as the vineyards in the distance, but given that the family mainly occupied the home in the summer months, Rosamunde had always thought that the windows made the hallway intolerably hot and stuffy. Since there had been no servants to draw down the heavy drapes, today was even worse.

As she passed the door to Lady Trevelyan’s withdrawing chamber, she couldn’t help but overhear the bitter voices of the Bann and his wife engaged in a heated exchange. That part of the servants’ gossip had been true, at least.

Bann Jullian Trevelyan was a tempestuous man, much like his father. From what Rosamunde had gathered in her time serving the nobility of Ostwick, the Trevelyans had broken into the lesser ranks of the noble class less than a hundred years ago following a lucky trade deal that greatly benefitted the teyrn at the time. That small taste of power had devoured them, and, since then, the inheritors of the House had been raised with a singular purpose in life: to expand the power and wealth of the family.

The late Lord Trevelyan had managed to secure Jullian, his eldest child and only son, a marriage to Lady Vittoria Martiana, a cousin of Chancellor Orrick of Tantervale. Though the match bought enormous status for the family, Vittoria was a decade older than Jullian, and, stricken by an unknown malady in childhood, the woman was also ailing and debilitated. She’d only managed to produce a single living child—a girl, at that—and though Rosamunde had led her in a daily prayer for fertility for years, she sincerely doubted that the woman would be blessed with another, given her frail state. It had been nearly a decade since she’d given birth to her first child, but Lady Trevelyan was a devout woman, and she still held out hope that the Maker would hear her pleas for a son.

It was through Vittoria’s piety, and the Trevelyans’ generous contributions to the Chantry, that Rosamunde came to be entrenched in the household. Over the years, she’d observed how Jullian, in his unending quest for position, had smothered the happiness out of his family. Vittoria was not much better, with her fixation on appearance and material things. Together they’d created a cold and unloving home, the unfortunate victim of it all being their daughter, though with the Trevelyans’ wealth, the child was deprived of no material possessions. Raised a daughter of Tantervale, Vittoria had insisted that their children be educated by the Chantry, and so Rosamunde had been charged with the spiritual, moral and educational upbringing of their sole offspring.

Not wanting to be accused of eavesdropping, she moved quickly on down the long hallway, finally coming to the bedroom door that she was so familiar with, and, with a deep breath to gather her own resolve, pushed it open.

The little girl’s room was sprawling by any standard. Against one wall, the bed had been neatly made, despite the absence of Hanna, the girl’s handmaid, who, upon hearing the news, had refused to come around the child. In one corner of the room a giant dollhouse stood. Rosamunde had spent many hours with the little girl, crafting wallpaper and furniture and imagining the fanciful lives of the dolls that inhabited it. The memory brought a subdued smile to her face. On the opposite wall, shelves upon shelves of books framed a window seat that looked out upon the eastern gardens. It was there against the light of the morning sun that she found the silhouette of a little girl, who had turned to look over her shoulder upon hearing the opening of the door, her face red and puffy from her tiredness and the tears that had been spilled.

Even from so far away, Rosamunde could make out the glistening trail of tears that stained her face. She hurried forward and took a seat beside her on the cushioned sill, her own gaze met by the sweet brown eyes that she’d come to love. Rosamunde reached out to tuck a long, loosely-curled strand of dark brown hair behind the girl’s ear.

“Evelyn...you know that it hurts me to see your sadness.”

At that, the little girl said nothing, but turned to look back out the window, another teardrop spilling out to fall down the prominent curves of her face. Fighting back her own emotions, Rosamunde turned to look out the window as well, and they sat there in silence, overlooking the blooming garden for some time, each relishing the other’s presence.

After a while, Rosamunde turned back to the child and took her little hand into her own, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “You must think of this as an adventure, just like Tippi in your favorite bedtime story. You remember how brave Tippi was, don’t you?”

Her attempt to animate the girl had failed, and the child just continued to stare out the window.

“Mother Rosamunde?” the little girl asked finally, her voice thin and shaky. “Do you know what I’ve done to disappoint the Maker?”

The idea that the precious child at her side thought this all a punishment from the Maker made Rosamunde feel as though a knife had been plunged straight into her heart. Though the girl was nearly eight now, Rosamunde pulled her into her lap as she had done when she was just a toddler. Her head found a resting place in the crook of Rosamunde's neck just as it had so often so many years before. Instinctively, she began to rock her back and forth while she tried to find adequate words. More than anything, Rosamunde wanted to tell her that it _wasn’t_ a punishment, that she _wouldn’t_ be subjected to the malice and contempt of a world that feared and hated her for her gifts, that she would live safely in the Circle for the rest of her days without a worry of the temptations of demons, or death by a Templar’s sword following a failed Harrowing, or the hollow emptiness of a life as Tranquil. All of the most terrible possibilities had haunted her since Evelyn’s magic had revealed itself, and as much as she tried to dismiss them as irrational worries borne of her love for the child, she had seen firsthand the abhorrent treatment that some mages endured in the Circles. She swallowed hard, trying to push the thoughts from her mind.

“You know that the Maker gives us trials,” she explained. “To teach us lessons, to teach us about ourselves, and especially to show us what we can endure with His grace. The Maker has chosen you to serve Him in this way.” She stopped briefly and, tucking her finger underneath the girl’s chin, brought the wide, scared young eyes level with her own. “I know that there is a reason He did, though it may never be known to us. You have the strength and the intelligence to meet this challenge, I am sure of it, but more than anything, you are kind, and that is what others will recognize in you.” She ran her fingers through the long, soft locks of brown hair, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Overcome with heartache, the child’s face screwed up, and fresh, steady tears began to fall. “But I don’t want to leave you.”

 _Maker_. Her heart skipped another beat. If Rosamunde had chosen a different life and ever had a daughter of her own, this is exactly what she’d imagined she would be like. She wondered, incredulous, for a moment how the little girl had managed to grow up without her father’s hunger for power and her mother’s lust for expensive trinkets. Perhaps it was their absence in her raising, which Rosamunde had previously always thought to be a misfortune, that had spared her. The little girl’s words brought forth a powerful wave of sorrow, and Rosamunde felt her eyes fill with tears, try as she might to suppress them.

She sat there, rocking the little girl back and forth, for what seemed like a long time. Finally, though to Rosamunde it seemed too soon, she peeled her away. “It is time now, sweet girl. You must go on to your future. We’ve kept your escort waiting long enough.”

A nervousness settled in her stomach as she thought about sending the child off alone. Her parents had refused to travel to the Circle with her, and when Rosamunde had requested that she be able to accompany her, they’d denied that as well.

Taking the little girl’s hand in her own, she stood and led her out of the bedroom and down the gallery, surprised at how willingly she came. Thankfully, Jullian and Vittoria’s argument had ended, and though the little girl stole a longing glimpse toward her mother’s room as they passed, the closed door seemed to be signal enough that she would not be saying goodbye to her parents. Rosamunde gave her hand another squeeze and they continued on, down the grand staircase, following a series of hallways that led to another narrower staircase that the servants used, then finally reaching the servants’ entrance, Evelyn following her dutifully all the way. Ser Rollins, the steward of the estate, and Miss Mercy, one of the cooks who favored the child, had gathered at the door to see her off.

Rollins was a tall man, always well-dressed and impeccably proper, as befitting his position at the estate, but he hiked up trousers and knelt in front of Evelyn to bid her farewell. The little girl offered him a small smile despite her tears, and reached out to run her thumb over the man’s scruffy cheek. “Goodbye, Ser,” she said as she offered him a little curtsy. “Thank you for...coming to say goodbye,” she added shyly. Then she turned to the cook, and, giving her a hug, expressed how much she would miss the woman’s pancakes, which she’d always made in special shapes for the little girl.

Outside, one of the carriages had been pulled up and was now flanked by more than a dozen templars. Evelyn immediately shrank back into the folds of Rosamunde’s robes upon seeing the imposing figures sitting atop their barding-clad destriers, with their heavy armor and longswords hanging at their sides.

“These are Templars, Evelyn. They are knights, charged with your protection. You need not fear them.”

One of the men dismounted and pulled off his helmet as he approached them, introducing himself as Knight-Lieutenant Harmon. Rosamunde thought he seemed young to be leading an entire unit of Templars, but he didn’t look incapable, and as he knelt and greeted the little girl as a man would greet a young lady of the nobility, she scolded herself for her hasty judgment.

“Is she ready?” he asked.

“Just another moment…” She could see the annoyance flash across his face, but rather than protest he merely nodded and retreated to wait by the carriage.

Her stomach turning to knots, Rosamunde sank to her knees in front of Evelyn, taking in one last, long look at her before pulling her into a hug. When they finally parted, Rosamunde struggled to speak, the emotions that she’d put off over the past twenty-four hours catching up to her at last.

It was the little girl that spoke first.

“I love you.”

Rosamunde wasn’t sure why she couldn’t say the words back. There was no question that she loved the child—perhaps it was the appearance of distance she’d always felt she’d needed to maintain in her position—but even with all the undeserved disappointments Evelyn had faced in such a short amount of time, Rosamunde couldn’t bring herself to utter the words to provide the child with some feeling of comfort or security—or love—before she left. It was a weakness in a moment she would come to regret for the rest of her life.

Instead, Rosamunde pulled her back into her arms. “You must be strong,” she whispered.

The little girl just nodded, and Rosamunde couldn’t help but catch the dejected look in her eyes before the Knight-Lieutenant swept her into the carriage and they were off.


	2. Prologue, continued

Cullen Rutherford took a deep breath of the salty air of the Waking Sea, eyes closed and both hands planted firmly on the railing of the deck to steady himself against the incessant rocking of the ship. The feeling of ease that had fallen over him the moment he’d accepted Seeker Pentaghast’s offer had dissipated as soon as he’d stepped off the Kirkwall docks and onto the ship, replaced with the restless churning of his stomach that had been made worse by his recent descent belowdecks. He’d discovered that, if he could focus on the far horizon and _at the same time_ drown out the sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the vessel, he _might_ be able to keep himself from losing the contents of his stomach. But accomplishing both of these things concurrently had proved difficult, and so he’d spent much of the journey so far bent over the taffrail, consumed by a nauseated misery that couldn’t end soon enough.

His stomach heaved again, but there was nothing left to lose but acrid, foul-tasting bile. “Maker, have mercy,” he muttered bitterly as he used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his mouth. This was not the ideal beginning to his new assignment. The fact that he was the only one of their small party to be so affected by the sea was an irritation—even the dwarf was unimpaired. Unimpaired by the sea, that is. Varric seemed to be right at home aboard the vessel, on a first-name basis and swapping tales with many of the crew and passengers within hours, never to be found without the company of a flagon of ale. Cullen couldn’t figure how he’d managed not to tumble over the railing. The dwarf had paid him a visit earlier in the day, as Cassandra’s messenger no less, to let him know that the Seeker had business to discuss below.

“All right, Curly, I’ll admit you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but you’re starting to turn around a bit, so I’m gonna let you in on a little secret,” he’d explained, nose wrinkled in disgust after watching the poor man retch a few times. “The best way to find your sea legs is to drink...a lot. That way it sort of cancels out the rocking of the boat, you see? I’ll have one of the cabin girls bring you a tankard. They’ve been chattering on about all the ways they’d like to _serve_ you anyway.” He’d paused here, a mischievous twinkle appearing in his eyes as he followed this train of thought. “As a matter of fact, Rivaini _did_ mention some other ways to ... take a man’s mind off the rocking of the boat. Maybe I’ll send the girls up without the ale...”

He’d shot Varric a nasty glare, but the good-humored dwarf had just thrown his head back and laughed gleefully at his indignation. With a companionable clap on the man’s back, the dwarf left him to his agony, uttering something under his breath about the foolishly virtuous and ‘loosening up’.

After what felt like another eternity, Cullen’s stomach began to settle, though he wasn’t sure whether it was due to the ship’s passage into calmer waters or the fact that two days of sickness and sleepless nights were finally catching up to him. He stood up, as straight as he could manage, one hand coming to rest on his agitated midsection. He guessed that it was several hours before dawn. The deck was mostly silent, as was usual when the day crew retired to their quarters and the quieter night watch took over the ship’s operation. No longer able to resist the fatigue that nagged at him, he spied a corner of the deck only a few paces away, crammed with cargo, but with a stack of burlap sacks that looked like they could function well enough as a pillow, and settled himself in.

Sleep hadn’t come readily for Cullen in a long time, but tonight—this morning—he drifted off with relative ease as one of the crew began to whistle the slow tune of an Andrastian hymn. One or two more joined him, and then a third began to sing, voice even and reverent. The song lulled him into a deep sleep, his eyes drooping until they finally closed completely, head falling off to the side to rest against one of the overstuffed bags.

***

When his eyes opened again, the swaying of the ship had been replaced by the merciful steadiness of solid ground, the sailors’ chorus by the exuberant trill of songbirds in pursuit of a mate. He stood at the start of a narrow gravel lane, surrounded at his back and sides by a thick forest of leafless trees interspersed with the bluish hue of evergreens in their season, and dead underbrush so dense that the only way he could proceed was forward along the path. Although he’d fallen asleep in breeches and a simple white tunic, he was now armored from head to toe in the plate and heraldry of the Templar Order.

Beneath the heavy helmet he wore, his brow knitted in confusion as his brain recognized that he didn’t belong in this place, and certainly not in this armor, but, in its muddled haze, also couldn’t arrive at a determination as to why. Snowflakes fluttered aimlessly to the ground around him, sending a chill down his spine, and despite the faraway whisper of rational thought that urged him to stay put, he found himself moving one foot in front of the other, compelled by some unknown power to follow the shadowy path ahead.

He walked for a while, hand ready upon the hilt of the sword at his side, anticipating some evil being to spring forth from the gloom, but no assault came, and as the thick forest started to thin, finally receding into the appearance of a manicured garden, his battle-primed posture relaxed a bit. 

Eventually, the lane ushered him through a wide gap in the hedge and into a long, open glade paved with cobblestone. At the far end of the clearing stood a stone statue of Andraste with a crown of gold, shield pulled to her chest and head bowed in faithful veneration. He stopped in his tracks to admire it. For the devoted Templar, it was a beautiful sight, the statue’s deference amplified by the silence and simplicity of its setting. It reminded him of the peace he’d felt during his Vigil, the day that he had pledged his service to the Order.

Is this why his dreams had brought him to this place? To remind him of the vows he’d sworn? Given the history of catastrophe that seemed to follow his involvement with the Order, Cullen had agreed to the Seeker’s offer to lead the Inquisition’s army with little hesitation. In the time that had passed, though, a twinge of guilt had begun to grow in the back of his mind, first planted when he’d sat down to write to Mia to tell her of his departure from the Order. He’d been glued to the seat at his desk for hours into the early morning, trying to put the words onto paper. In the end he’d given up. His ambitions had been fixated on the Order for so long… and his family had pursued it all as enthusiastically as he had. How could he tell them he was abandoning everything, betraying his oath and their support? His gaze fell upon the Prophet’s countenance with a hope that she might provide some clarity, but her blank eyes offered neither a hint of consolation nor condemnation for his choices.

The wind picked up abruptly, breaking the silence with the scrape of dry leaves sliding across the brick pavers. It carried Andraste’s mantle of fog away, revealing the crumpled heap of a body at the foot of the dais. Curious, he took a step forward, but then hesitated as it dawned on him that he already knew who he would find—and he wanted no part of it. The form didn't stir. After an idle second he cursed himself and hurried to it. Dream or not, he couldn’t bring himself to abandon an injured woman.

It _was_ exactly who he'd thought it would be.

He’d been a young man when he first dreamed of her the night he had taken his first draught of lyrium. Though he’d tried to push the encounter from his memory over the years, it was impossible; she’d left him enraptured, standing above him on the bluff with deep brown hair that fell in long, loose curls around her, drawing his eyes down to take in her figure, her shape so captivating that even the unflattering robes of the Circle couldn’t ruin it. And her eyes. Her eyes were bright and fierce. He was too far away from her to recognize their color, but they appraised him with an intensity that rattled him to his core and left him questioning all of the principles of propriety and righteousness he’d promised to the Chantry mere hours before. Blood raging with lyrium and a youthful, carnal thirst he’d suppressed during his time training for the Order, he’d wanted to go to her, to close his mouth over her full lips, wind his fingers into those luxurious locks of hair and lose himself in her right there.

But he’d been rooted in place and all he could do was admire her from afar as she stood there looking at him, unmoving, hair and robes whipping wildly about her in the wind until the dream had ended and she’d faded into nothingness. In the morning when he woke he’d remembered his unchaste thoughts and felt ashamed, but not so contrite that he didn’t fervently hope his dreams would take him to her every night thereafter.

Until Uldred had changed it all.

Now, as he knelt at her side, closer to her than his dreams had ever allowed before, he found that her skin was pale and her breathing shallow. In the years since the disaster at Kinloch Hold he’d tried to deny his attraction to her, but he couldn’t help but reacknowledge it now. Her hair was as exquisite as ever, splayed out over the pavers, her face perfection. Gently, he slipped a gloved hand underneath her neck and pulled her up into his arms. The disturbance drew her back to consciousness and her eyes fluttered open, their gazes meeting for a brief moment. Her eyes were golden brown, like the color of honey or amber, but punctuated with little flecks of black. They were hollow. He wasn’t sure if she even recognized that he was there.

“What’s happened to you?” he murmured softly, absently brushing a few strands of hair from her face. He could see no evidence of a wound just from looking her over.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to answer but couldn’t speak. In a slow motion, she pressed her hand to her neck and when she pulled it away, Cullen was shocked to see that it was covered in blood. Her own eyes widened as she turned her hand over in front of her, watching the blood trickle down her palm to stain the sleeve of the white dress she wore, her labored breathing growing more frantic in her distress. Finally she tore her gaze away and looked back at him, expression pleading.

He pressed his own gloved hand to her throat, but when he pulled his hand away there was nothing. How could he tend a wound that he couldn’t see?

He looked helplessly down at her. She seemed to understand his inaction, taking as deep a breath as she could muster as she resigned herself to her fate, her head turning in to rest on the strong arm that held her. The first apparent sign of injury appeared to Cullen as she coughed up blood, the thick red substance pouring down her chin and neck. Her bloody fingers wound themselves into his tunic as her body started to convulse in his embrace. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over as her lids fell closed for the last time.

“No!” Cullen hadn’t noticed the pounding of his heart until now. He wrenched the helmet that restricted his field of view from his head and cast it aside, looking wildly about him as if he expected to find someone, anyone else.

“Help!” he shouted. “Help! Anyone...please!” But he knew that no one would come. They were alone in this place, save for the idle, unsympathetic gaze of the Prophet.

***

“Ser?” It was a distant voice at first, a woman’s, and accompanied by the weight of a hand on his shoulder giving him a gentle shake.

“Ser!”

He practically jumped out of his skin as the sound rang loudly in his ear this time, his hand immediately moving to his sword, drawing it from the sheath at his side in one quick motion. The young woman who had awakened him scrambled several steps backward.

“I’m so sorry, Ser! But you were talking in your sleep, calling for help. I didn’t want to leave you…”

Without even acknowledging her presence, he closed his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh as he lowered his weapon, his thoughts retreating at once to the condition of the woman in his dream. Would she die alone?  
The likelihood that he would never know sent him into a fractious mood, but at the same time he guiltily acknowledged a feeling of relief that took hold deep within him. She’d haunted his dreams all these long years, a constant reminder of his failures and the torture he’d endured at the hands of mages—would he be free from it all now?

But he’d loved her.

No.

He’d wanted her.

That wasn’t fair either. He’d had lovers over the years, but no other woman had so consumed his thoughts.

But she wasn’t even _real_.

Lost in this internal struggle, he dragged his hands up the side of his face and through his sandy hair, uttering a regretful curse under his breath. It wasn’t until the woman spoke again that he snapped back to the present. She’d taken a couple of cautious steps toward him by now.

“Ser? Can I take your mind off your worry?”

She closed the rest of the distance between them quickly, expertly even, her hand coming to rest on his forearm and then snaking seductively up over the muscles of his biceps. To most men she was pretty enough, her black hair fastened into a long braid that trailed down over shapely breasts that nearly spilled out from the tight-fitting dress she wore, accentuating the milky white color of her skin.

Cullen shook her groping hands away.

“You can tell Seeker Pentaghast that I’d like to see her. Have her come up to the main deck. And if you’re able, fetch some paper for me. I’ve got a letter to write.”


	3. Chaos in the Valley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll finally meet [a conscious] Evelyn in the next chapter! Thank you for reading!

“She still looks so pale..” Leliana gently nudged the comatose body that lay at her feet with the toe of her boot, then glanced over to the elven apostate that knelt at its side. “You really think she’ll wake?”

“I do,” he replied. “As I said before, her vitals are greatly improved, and some of her color has even come back, though it may not look like it to you. It shouldn’t be long now. A few hours I’d say, at most. If you don’t believe _me_ , I think you’ll find that the Inquisition’s apothecary agrees.” 

The Spymaster’s lips tightened into a thin line at the apostate’s curt retort. “Allow me to remind you, Solas, that we are—”

“That’s enough, both of you.” Sensing that this was going nowhere productive, Cassandra stepped forward from the bars of the cell that she’d been resting against to interject. “This rivalry must stop. Do I need to send you both outside to remind you of what we face?”

Leliana folded her arms across her chest in obstinate stubbornness, refusing to respond to the Seeker’s admonishment.

_Silence is better than squabbling_ , Cassandra thought to herself, satisfied for the moment. She surveyed the unconscious woman, the one person that seemed to hold the key to the chaos that plagued the valley. The hysteria brought about by the inrush of demons that followed the explosion at the Temple had given them no time to mourn Justinia’s loss. Even now, Cassandra couldn’t quite acknowledge it all as reality. Instead, she’d survived the past few days simply by taking in one cumbrous breath after the other. Fury mixed with heartbreak bubbled up within her as she observed the seemingly peaceful countenance of the sleeping prisoner. “Let us hope Solas is right. We need answers, and the Divine, and many more, need justice. This woman has much to explain.”

A weary sigh escaped Leliana’s lips. “You are right, of course. Solas, I did not mean to insult your skill. I am grateful that you are here to help.”

The sound of footsteps descending the stairs broke the quiet tension that permeated the room. Cassandra looked over her shoulder to find Commander Rutherford hastening down the long, dark hallway, flickering torch in hand. So many attempts had been made on the prisoner’s life that they had stationed an entire squad of soldiers as guard; as their Commander passed they snapped to attention. Cassandra felt a little swell of pride for her role in bringing Cullen to the Inquisition. Their soldiers had fought valiantly despite their small numbers, and Cullen had proven to be an exceptional inspiration in the midst of hopelessness.

“How are things at the front?” she called out as he quickly closed the distance between them.

“Not good, I’m afraid.” He passed the torch he held to the soldier tending the door to the cell. “We’re losing ground. If we can’t establish a foothold at the Temple we’re going to have to retreat. There is a Rift there...the flood of demons is relentless, and…” he lowered his voice to a whisper as he came up next to Cassandra, “...truthfully, our soldiers are no match for them.” Not one to waste a second of precious time, he turned his gaze to the woman sprawled upon the stone floor. “So this is the prisoner?”

Leliana spoke up. “It is. We don’t know much about her, beyond that she’s a mage. We’re trying to identify her, but, as you know, the list of attendees to the Conclave is long, and we’re sure there were many more unsolicited guests present as spies.”

“The good news,” Cassandra added, “is that Solas expects she’ll be awake soon. Then, hopefully, we’ll know more.”

Cullen turned a quick glance to the elf before kneeling down for a closer look at the woman. “How is her health?”

“She is doing well given what she’s been through. The mark upon her hand is a mystery. I surmise that it is connected in some way to the Breach in the sky. In fact, it may be the means by which we close it, but I can’t speak with any certainty yet.” Cassandra couldn’t help but notice the Commander’s sharp intake of breath as he pushed the hair out of the woman’s face while the elf prattled on. “…Since there is nothing more I can offer here I would ask permission to accompany you back to the Temple, so that I might study these rifts.”

Without an answer for the apostate, Cullen pulled his gloves off and then took the woman’s left hand into his own, turning it over to inspect the mark on her palm. “You saw the scars on her wrist, then?”

“We did,” Cassandra acknowledged.

Cullen let the woman’s hand fall back to the floor. Placing a finger under her chin, he turned her head to get a better look at the long scar that marred her neck. “Curious, isn’t it,” he said as he ran a thumb over the soft, raised flesh, “that she could have survived _that_? She has escaped more trouble than I would have thought possible. A Templar should be stationed here to watch over her when she wakes.”

“No, you need the Templars at the front. She won’t hurt anything under our watch.”

“You’re not coming back with me, then?” he asked, tugging his leather gloves back over his fingers. “We could use all the help we can get.”

Cassandra was conflicted. More hands were needed on the battlefield, but justice for the Divine was _here_. Thankfully Leliana felt the same way.

“Take Solas and Varric. They should be a great help. Cassandra and I will wait for the prisoner to wake. She is the key. We must…” for all her callousness, the Spymaster choked on her own emotion “…know more.”

“Very well, but know that we won’t last much longer. Our position is precarious and every sword, every bow, is needed. Has Josephine had any success procuring assistance from the nobles?”

Cassandra shook her head, her expression grim. She could hardly stand to further disappoint the Commander, who would have to carry the disheartening news back to their worn soldiers. “Unfortunately, no. And even if we do hear anything, it would be days before any help could reach us.”

He nodded, and then clasped a hand over Cassandra’s shoulder before turning to leave in as much a hurry as he had come. “Pray for us then.”

With one final look down at his charge, the apostate turned to go as well, close upon the heels of the Commander.

“Maker watch over you!” Cassandra called after them as they disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

***

The ache that had gnawed at the space behind Cullen’s eyes for the past several days twinged painfully as he emerged from the dark chantry and into the sunlight. He raised a finger to his throbbing temple and rubbed, half hoping that the pain and fatigue had left him delusional, and that the identity of the prisoner was really only a trick of the mind.

_Was it her_? He couldn’t be sure, for her appearance had changed markedly since he’d last encountered her in his dreams on the journey back to Ferelden. Still, despite the shorter, disheveled hair and her unhealthy condition, there was a familiarity about the woman that lay on the floor in the cell. But the last dream had been more than two months ago, and although she’d stolen into his thoughts frequently for some time after that, the work that needed to be done for the Inquisition began to occupy fairly all of his attention. He thought of her less and less as the days passed, eventually coming to believe that he might be finished with her altogether. In fact, it occurred to him now that neither had he thought of the rest of it—Uldred, Kinloch Hold, Kirkwall—in the time since then.

“You know her?”

It was the elf. He’d forgotten he had company.

“No,” he replied, pulling himself together. “No, I don’t know her.” It wasn’t a lie, though the elf’s inquiring eye told him that he wasn’t convinced.

“Ah, I see. Then I suppose I simply must of have imagined the recognition on your face when you looked upon her.”

“Find Varric and meet me at the Crossing in a half hour,” Cullen ordered through gritted teeth. He didn’t need to explain himself to the prying apostate. He still had business to attend to in Haven and he needed to get back to the army, or what was left of it, as quickly as possible.

“I’ll need my staff if I’m to be of use in battle.”

He pointed across the way to a woman who was barking orders at a handful of soldiers who scurried about the yard, working in pairs to load hefty crates of food, weapons, and armor onto nearby wagons. “Threnn. The Quartermaster. She’ll see to it that you get your staff back.”

Once the elf was gone, his thoughts turned back to the prisoner. Would she recognize him if she woke? And what if she _had_ been responsible? How could he have come to be connected to someone who would _murder_ so many…

No. If he allowed himself to go down that path of wondering he might never make it back to the front. And he still didn’t know for sure.


	4. Andraste's Herald

_Am I dead_?

The searing pain in her neck was enough to offer some doubt. Groaning, Evelyn shifted against the cold stone floor to turn herself onto her back, the rigidity of her joints making it slow, aching work. This small effort left her exhausted, and she lay there, breathing raggedly, for several minutes. 

_Breathing._

_So it was all just a dream._

A chill seized her tired body as she recalled the spider-like beasts that pursued her up the ridge and into the blinding silhouette of light that seemed to be _reaching_ for her. And just as the monsters were about to overtake her, it had all disappeared in a flash. 

Evelyn opened her eyes, only for her vision to be clouded by the same oppressive blackness that she’d just awakened from. Had the brilliance of the flash left her sightless?

“Maybe I am dead,” she wondered aloud. It was said that the transition from life into death begins with a flash of light, although, if she _was_ dead, the afterlife was certainly more painful than conventional wisdom led everyone to believe.

From somewhere to her left, a derisive laugh interrupted the silence. “You aren’t dead. Yet.” It was a woman’s voice. The accent was certainly not Fereldan, but it didn’t quite sound Orlesian, either. It reminded Evelyn of one of the senior enchanters who had come to Ostwick’s Circle years ago from Perendale. “Open the door!” the woman barked. “I’ll find Leliana. Ready the prisoner.” A hurried scramble of footsteps followed her instruction.

Evelyn turned her head toward the sounds. The fuzzy orange haze of torchlight hung in the air far away, and for a second she was relieved that she could, in fact, see, but that brief happiness was extinguished as soon as the bars of the cell came into focus.

She heard the scraping of metal on metal and then the clink of a lock being turned. The hideous screech of a door with hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years assaulted her ears and the bearer of one of the torches, a soldier—not heavily armored… a scout, maybe?—entered and began to ignite the sconces on the walls. Dim as it was, the little bit of light exposed her surroundings and she saw that, though the cell she occupied was rather large, she was the only occupant. Several more guards followed the first, taking positions around the cell, but two of them strode toward her and grabbed her roughly by the arms to drag her to the center of the chamber, where they unceremoniously dumped her onto her knees. Another stepped forward with iron shackles, and for the first time since she’d awakened she noticed that her hands were bound. How had that escaped her notice? She gave her head a little shake, as if it would help clear her addled senses. The soldier clapped the manacles around her wrists while all she could do was watch him, wide-eyed and mouth agape, her mind trying desperately to piece this all together. The restraints they used seemed excessive. What could she have done to justify this treatment?

“Is this really necess—” before she could finish, the soldier struck her across the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. She let out a cry and doubled over, bracing herself against the floor to meet the rush of dizziness that flooded over her. It was several minutes before the little spots of light that burst before her eyes began to subside, but the throbbing pain that radiated out from the point of impact wouldn’t fade away so easily. As much as she didn’t want to satisfy her captors with a display of weakness, she couldn’t suppress the reflexive whimpers that the contusion brought forth as her eyes filled with water.

After a while her body finally seemed to grasp the urgency of her predicament and the fog in her head began to dissipate. She had no idea what she’d done to land herself in this position, but if she was going to get out of it she would need to think, and quickly. She took stock of her condition.

Her staff was missing. That was expected, given the circumstances, though unfortunate. 

Sitting back up, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, mustering the power of her magic within her, but she was exhausted and weak, and there was nothing there to draw on. Besides the bump on her head, the stiffness in her joints and the aching muscles, she also became aware of a prickly sensation in her left hand. She lifted it up for a closer look and wiggled her fingers to make sure they worked properly. There was a small wound in the center of her palm. A cut from a fall, maybe? Just as she was telling herself that the strange tingling was nothing compared to her other hurts, a jolt of searing pain tore up her arm and her hand erupted in green energy, crackling and hissing as the agony of it wrested a scream from her lips. Her thoughts fled from her mind as the periphery of her vision began to fade into black. The shock of it all left her body petrified; she found it impossible even to will herself to draw breath. The guards that surrounded her drew their swords, the bright glow illuminating their faces and revealing the fear in their eyes. It would have been a welcome relief for one of them to run her through with a blade and end the suffering, but of course none would show her such a mercy.

_So this is how I die._

She was ready.

But then, as quickly as it had come, the energy fizzled out and the pain receded. She knelt, stock still, on the hard floor, stupefied by what had just occurred.

Before Evelyn’s bearings had fully returned to her, the gate to the cell burst open. Leliana, whoever she was, had arrived, along with the moment of her judgment. From the dingy light beyond the cell, two women descended upon her. Both were armored, and obviously formidable warriors. One had short dark hair, and in the scant light the torches afforded, Evelyn saw a long scar on the woman’s cheek, undoubtedly a mark earned in battle. The other woman, the taller of the two, was much more lightly-complected, but her hood obscured her features. She wore a simple chainmail tunic with leather accents, but, though this one was not as heavily outfitted as the other, Evelyn’s intuition told her that she was no less dangerous. Their conspicuous hostility aside, it was the insignia that decorated their armor that she found most worrisome: the Eyes of the Maker. _The Chantry._

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” It was the one with dark hair whose voice she’d heard earlier. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

_Yes._ The Conclave. The Rebellion. It all came rushing back to her now. First Enchanter Emile had sent her to Divine Justinia’s Conclave as part of the mage delegation. But... everyone had died?

“You... think I’m responsible?”

“Explain this.” The woman grabbed her hand, even as the mark on her palm hissed again, emitting that strange green glow.

“I... I... can’t.” She was sure her stuttering cheapened her credibility, but a terror even more acute than the present conundrum had begun to grip her mind as she struggled to recollect any memory that would absolve her of her association with this tragedy. 

A mage with missing memories and an unexplained power. Had she been possessed? Her heart thrummed in her chest.

“What do you mean you can’t?” The woman’s voice grew louder and angrier with her impatience, but Evelyn hardly noticed with the blood pounding in her ears. They circled her, the same way a pack of wolves would encircle its prey. Evelyn cast her eyes down to the floor as she racked her brain, desperate to recall something, anything, that might pass as an explanation. Nothing came.

“I... don’t know what that is... or how it got there...”

“You’re lying!” This time, the woman grabbed the collar of her tunic and drew her hand back to strike. Evelyn’s face scrunched up as she recoiled, girding herself for the blow that was about to come.

***

She woke with a start, relieved to find that soft firelight, instead of darkness, greeted her opened eyes, and that she lay under the covers of a soft, warm bed instead of the cold stone floor. Gingerly, she propped herself up on her elbows to get a better look at her surroundings, pleased that the soreness in her body had greatly diminished. She was in a cabin of some sort. Portraits and furs decorated the walls, suggesting that the place had, not so very long ago, been someone’s home, but huge barrels, crates, and canvas bags had been stacked in one corner of the room as if it currently doubled as a storage area. Shelves on the walls were lined with provender—fruits, vegetables, jugs and carafes—and even a bookshelf stacked with books stood against the far wall. Whoever had lived here could read, at least.

The whole cabin creaked as a gust of wind howled outside. The sound itself sent a chill through her, and she was grateful for the fire that crackled and popped in the hearth, warding off the cold. The ruddy light of early morning shone through the two windows that were built into opposite walls of the home.

Suddenly, the door opened, and in walked a young elven girl, surely no older than thirteen or fourteen, carrying a small crate. When the girl noticed Evelyn sitting up in bed she let out a little yelp, the package she was holding clattering to the floor. Whatever it held, the sound of shattering glass told them its contents were lost.

“I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” The girl took a few panicked steps backward, thrusting her palms out to demonstrate her innocence.

Evelyn shifted in the bed so that she sat completely upright. “Why are you frightened? What happened?”

The elven girl wrung her hands together nervously, her voice growing frantic. “That’s wrong isn’t it? I… I said the wrong thing!”

“I don’t _think_ so.” Evelyn’s brow creased as she looked the girl over. Her behavior was bewildering, but then, as an elven servant there was no guessing what experiences she’d lived to make her so skittish. “It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, so shaky at first that she had to catch herself on the tall barrel that functioned as a nightstand. She allowed herself a few seconds to regain her balance, then took a step toward the mess. Bits of broken glass littered the floor and the liquid contents of the flasks had settled into a dark pool on the wooden planks. “Here, let me help you with that.”

Suddenly the elven girl dropped to her knees in dramatic supplication, her head dipped low in obeisance. The abrupt movement made Evelyn jump.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

“What in the world are you... what’s going on here? Where am I?”

“You are back in Haven m’lady. They say you saved us!” She dared a glance up at the human, her eyes as round as saucers and filled with gratitude. “The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days.”

This gave Evelyn pause. So she’d been out for three days. It seemed longer. The Fade, the interrogation, the demon at the Temple… all seemed so distant. As the image of the monstrous demon reared itself in her mind’s eye, the mark on her hand erupted again. She watched it curiously. Before she’d closed the first Rift, its energy had been accompanied by an excruciating pain that left her breathless. Now, the feeling was more of a dull, throbbing irritation. Not comfortable, but not severe, either. When the energy was dormant, the mark looked like nothing more than a scrape in the hollow center of her palm, but rather than the deep red of an unhealed scab, it was black.

Despite the thing having gotten her into so much trouble, it had also gotten her out of it— _if_ you could say that being the only known remedy to the demon—plagued fractures in the Veil was preferable to imprisonment and interrogation by the very angry Hands of the newly-dead Divine.

Leliana and Cassandra. Ultimately she’d agreed to aid them and they’d faced the First Rift together. Had her cooperation earned her even a sliver of their trust? The fact that she hadn’t woken up on the cold, hard floor of the prison was encouraging.

“You don’t mean... that they’re happy with me?”

“I’m only saying what I heard..didn’t mean anything by it.” By now the elf was petrified of uttering another word, lest it be misconstrued by the strange woman and wind up getting her into trouble for revealing too much. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She said at once!”

“And where is she? Who is she with? Are they still talking about a trial?” The timid servant stood up and began to inch toward the door, clearly distressed at this line of questioning.

“In the chantry with the Lord Chancellor. At once, she said!” 

Before she could ask anything else of her, the girl turned on her heel and ran, slamming the door in her dash to get away.

Evelyn’s shoulders slumped. Truthfully, she was no stranger to this treatment, but it still deeply bothered her. In their intense distrust of magic, the people of Thedas preferred to keep mages at a distance, a predilection not entirely without cause. Now, with the rebellion, to be alone with a mage was a situation best avoided altogether. Some of her colleagues in the Circle had relished the power that this gave them over non-mages, but Evelyn had found the twenty years that had passed since her magic manifested to be quite an empty existence. The rebellion had made it even lonelier.

She took a quick look about the room. The staff that she’d found outside the Temple stood near her bedside. Her own had probably been lost forever in the explosion. It was a loss she would always regret, as it had been gifted to her from First Enchanter Emile after she’d survived her Harrowing.

Emile. It had been too long since she’d spoken with him.

Next to the staff was a small chest. Throwing it open, she found the rest of her belongings. The knife that she always carried, the small purse she’d worn in her travel to the Conclave—now empty of coin—and the apothecary’s satchel that had been brimming with unfamiliar flora, also emptied of its contents. Evelyn was most disappointed about the latter. On her journey to Haven, she’d sailed across the Waking Sea from Ostwick to Denerim. Emile had arranged an escort for her from the capital to Haven via the Imperial Highway, and, to her delight, she’d discovered a number of plants on the roadside she’d never seen before. The mercenary company that had been paid to escort her were irate when she’d insist on delaying their progress, stopping to take samples of plants for later identification and study.

Digging deeper into the chest, she found the traveler’s clothes that she’d worn to the Conclave, ripped and tattered from her adventures, but freshly laundered and folded. She pulled the tunic from its place at the bottom of the chest and ran her fingers slowly over the collar, a breath of relief escaping her lips as she felt the hard lump that she’d sewn into it the night before the Conclave. She made a quick cut at the seam with her knife and worked the object from the stitching that held it securely in place. Into her palm landed a deep red rectangular-cut gemstone, no more than an inch long, its many facets shining brilliantly as it caught the light from the fire. Evelyn clutched the tiny stone to her chest, thankful that it hadn’t been discovered and confiscated by her captors. She slid down against the edge of the bed, coming to rest on the bearskin that was laid on the floor, and pulled her knees to her chest to guard against the chill. She brought the stone, still in the palm of her hand, closer to her lips, and, in the faintest breath, whispered to it.

“Emile?”

She waited for several minutes, but heard nothing. _Perhaps he is in the middle of something_ , she thought. Or maybe he’s asleep. He _was_ an old man.

“Emile, I am alive.” Then, wondering how she might possibly explain the predicament she was in, she came to a pause. “The Conclave failed and… terrible things have happened. I must speak with you.” She wondered if news of what had happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes had reached him in Andoral’s Reach yet. How long did it take information to travel to the fringes of Orlais?

She waited again, but heard nothing save the crackling fire and the movement of townsfolk outside her door as the village woke and began the business of the day. From the commotion and clamor they made, one would think she was in the middle of Val Royeaux itself. After a few more minutes passed, she stood, deciding that it probably wasn’t in her best interest to keep the Seeker waiting too long in case the elven girl had announced that she’d woken.

She donned the tunic and trousers, carefully securing the wide leather belt at her waist, and pulled on her heavy boots. It wasn’t until she was hunched over to tie the small leather purse to her belt that she noticed the faded bloodstains embedded in the fabric of her clothes. A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her of how her mother would have scolded her for appearing in public in these rags, particularly in the presence of important people. Unfortunately there was nothing she could do for it now. She tucked the sending stone into a little pouch and secured it at her side with great care, then headed outside.

She didn’t make it far though, the scene immediately outside her door halting her dead in her tracks. Throngs of people—villagers, guards, and even some of the Chantry priests and chancellors—had gathered outside the cabin, which was guarded by two Inquisition soldiers standing at attention.

“Guard?” She kept her voice low. She hadn’t forgotten the mob she and Cassandra had encountered after her interrogation, and she recognized many of the same faces in the crowd before her. _"They have decided your guilt,"_ the Seeker had explained, as the collective rumble of contempt—booing, hissing, cursing, spitting—followed them up the road that led to the Temple. If Cassandra hadn’t been present she would have surely been subjected to much worse.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Who are all of these people?”

“Townsfolk, my lady. Villagers. Looks like some soldiers and clerics too.”

“Yes, of course, I can see that... but why are they here?”

“They came to honor the Herald of Andraste.”


	5. Uncomfortable Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: implied reference to suicide attempt

“If staring at that thing closed it, we all could have gone home hours ago.”

Evelyn peeled her eyes away from the giant hole in the sky above her and twisted around on the crate she was using as a seat to find the source of the voice. She was relieved to see that it was the dwarf ambling toward her, as there was something about his disposition that put her at ease, or, at least, didn’t set her on edge like the rest of the Inquisition’s cast of characters. He stepped carefully around and over the canvas-wrapped corpses that were laid out on the bridge. The number of casualties from the explosion at the Temple and the ensuing battles was tremendous, and although the Chantry sisters had been working tirelessly to prepare the bodies for funeral rites, Evelyn guessed that there were still nearly a hundred left on the bridge alone, nevermind those stacked in the wagons that lined the Temple road.

“Ah, sorry to disappoint you, Master Tethras,” she said, offering him a half smile, “but you should know better than anyone that easy victories make for dull stories.”

He chuckled as he came up beside her, unbuckling the strap that held his crossbow at his back and leaning the prized weapon against the parapet. “Enough with the formalities. Call me Varric.” He settled onto a nearby stack of lumber and tilted his head back to take in the Breach from this new vantage point, his eyes moving in slow circles as they followed the roiling clouds. “Not much has changed since this morning, eh?”

“Not much, no.”

“Care to explain why the Herald of Andraste is up here all alone? _They_ would have a fit if they knew you were unattended.” He jerked his head in the direction of the village, where Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine and Cullen were undoubtedly still locked away in their war room, little more than a closet at the back of the chantry, arguing over how to placate the Grand Clerics and weighing the likelihood that this lord or that lady would pity them enough to toss the Inquisition a few coins.

“The dead wanted company,” she replied flatly, irked by his use of the title the people had given her. “You’re one to scold, anyway. I would have thought I could count on a fellow prisoner not to go telling on me.”

“Can’t say I blame you for wanting some peace and quiet, but you know if the Seeker finds out I’ve been hiding anything from her she’ll skin me alive. Besides, _you_ aren’t a prisoner any longer.”

“I’m a mage, Varric. I may not be wearing chains but I will always be a prisoner.”

He shot a sidelong glance in her direction and the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly. A few seconds of silence passed before he burst into a fit of laughter, her own face breaking into a full-fledged smile, the first to grace her countenance in as long as she could remember.

“You’ve got a good sense of humor, Herald. We’re going to get along just fine. You’ve read my Tale of the Champion, and so thoroughly that you can quote it? I’m impressed.”

“Don’t give me too much credit. You knew that line would resonate with your audience in the Circles.”

The Circle. Her smile faltered as the familiar faces of her cohort at Highcalere rose up in her mind. Aela. Cyran. Thaddeus. Felicity. Selah. Verity. The faces of the people she had grown up with and the children she had tutored. People— _good_ people—who had laughed, cried, struggled and triumphed, and ultimately died in the place that should have been their refuge. A lump formed in her throat. She was here, alive and smiling, and they were dead, their bodies probably still rotting on the floor of the keep. Where she left them.

“It is wrong of me to joke about it,” she muttered hurriedly, her voice hoarse. Varric watched her, one bushy brow arched in curious scrutiny, but he sensed her disquiet and did not push for an explanation for the sudden change in emotion. She was thankful that he was gracious enough to change the subject entirely, offering a distraction from the images that haunted her and allowing her to regain some composure.

“So I heard you’d gone and joined the Inquisition yourself. You go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would’ve spread that out over more than one day.”

“Yes, well, hopefully playing along nicely will spare me from the brunt of more of their anger.” She reached up to rub the knot on her skull. The swelling had gone down significantly and the laceration was scarred over, but it was still bruised and tender. “Really, though,” her tone grew serious, “I do believe in their cause. I came here to end the war, and if dealing with this _thing_ gets me any closer to doing that, then I have to try.”

“Hmmph. I’m going to say this once now, because someone damn well needs to: You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. Right now would be a really good time, actually. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky...that’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand at him. “Now you’re just being dramatic.”

In truth, his words were the snowy white peaks that capped the mountain of anxiety growing within her.

He shook his head at her, as a parent would at a willful child overlooking the wisdom of her elders. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She said nothing, but turned her gaze back to the sky and sat in quiet contemplation. A vast maelstrom of churning clouds, the Breach looked like it had been plucked from the pages of one of her favorite childhood books, the one that told the story of Safia, a seafaring mercenary hired to escort a flotilla of trade ships beset by pirates. Outnumbered by her enemies’ superior ships, Safia’s defeat was all but guaranteed until the ocean opened up into a colossal, swirling vortex, swallowing the whole of the pirate fleet. Evelyn could remember the illustration of the whirlpool in the sea vividly; she’d studied the pages for hours, yearning for the kind of adventures Safia had.

As terrible as they were, and as much death and destruction as they had rained upon the valley, the Breach and its Rifts had her mesmerized. Solas, the elven apostate, had held her hand up to that first rift and the energy had sputtered forth from the cradle of her palm, like it had a mind of its own and could _sense_ its proximity to the spicate fissure that shifted and warped in the air before her. Then the manifested power had protracted into long, sinuous ropes that _joined_ her to it, and in the split second that passed before the rift shattered into a thousand pieces that evaporated into thin air, a boundless vigor had coursed through her veins, the rest of the world fading away as darkness crept at the edges of her vision. The feeling was an exhilarating contrast to the abject weariness that had been her life over the past few months. It was unlike anything she’d experienced before, even considering the power she commanded as a mage, and she was eager to feel it again.

“If you’re not going to take my advice and run, I’d better be getting you back to the village.” The dwarf’s words interrupted her reverie.

“I’m fine here alone, Varric. Just tell them you haven’t seen me.”

He snorted and hopped up from his perch to retrieve Bianca. “Nice try, Herald, but you’re coming with me. No more fuss about it. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink at the tavern.” He finished fastening the buckle that secured the crossbow to his back and held a hand out to help her up from her place.

“I don’t want a drink at the tavern.”

The steely look that caught in his eyes told her he was reaching the end of his rope, and with a huff to make sure her reluctance was known, she took his proffered hand and let him pull her to her feet.  
They made their way through the sea of corpses and onto the road leading past the southern end of the bridge, the woman purposefully shortening her long-legged stride to match the dwarf’s pace. It was a lazy stroll, and she was glad to take her time with it. Some of the villagers and refugees had become entirely unreasonable since they’d declared her Maker-sent, going out of their way to cross her path, greeting her with absurd titles or reaching out to touch her as she passed them in the street, others even going so far as to prostrate themselves at her feet in the middle of the road, muddy as it was with the recent snowfall. It was a complete about-face in attitude toward her, and although it was an improvement over their animosity, she worried that it would only stoke the ire of the Inquisition’s enemies in the Chantry. The Divine’s agents, at least, seemed to believe that she wasn’t the mastermind behind the explosion at the Conclave, but Chancellor Roderick made it clear that the remaining clerics would not be so easily convinced of her innocence.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Varric observed. “Anything you want to talk about?”

She preferred to confess her worries to First Enchanter Emile rather than a dwarf she didn't even know, but the sending stone had been quiet all day.

“I just... I wonder how I’m going to make it through this without losing my head. Roderick is determined that I should be the one to pay for everything that’s happened. Cassandra and Leliana have spared me, but... oh, I don’t know. Something feels off.”

His brows drew down in thoughtful contemplation, taking his time to mull over a response.

“You look like shit, you know.”

She came to an abrupt stop at the side of the road, fixing him with a reproachful glare. “I— _what_?”

He drew to a stand as well, facing her head on as if to show he had no fear of the wrath his words might bring forth. “You _look_ like _shit_ ,” he repeated, enunciating the words more slowly this time, so there could be no mistaking them. His voice was level and direct, free from any hint of cruelty, but the audacity of his words still took her by surprise and she struggled to muster a response.

“What does that even have to do with anything?” she managed finally. She couldn’t refute the statement. In fact, he was probably right. She had avoided looking at herself for a long time, the uncomfortable stretching of the scars that marred her once-smooth skin enough of a reminder of the suffering she had endured since the fall of the Circle.

“You’re…” he went quiet, once again taking his time to search for the right words. “You’re withering. You look like you might just turn to dust and blow away with a strong wind. Common people might see the mark on your hand and say that you’re sent by the Maker to save us all, but some of us know better. That thing in the sky is going to swallow the world if left unchecked, and _this_ is what the Maker sends to rescue His devoted?” His eyes trailed over her from head to toe, considering every inch, and evidently finding her lacking, judging from the scoffing grunt that passed his lips. “You're right about one thing: closing the Breach isn’t going to be easy. Shit, it’s probably going to kill you, and here you are, already looking like death. And you wonder why Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen hesitate to trust this task to you? How can they count on someone who’s already given up?”

She stood there wordlessly, caught between confusion and fury, as he turned on his heel to resume his trek to the tavern.

“I said I was going to try,” she eventually called after him, mostly to rob him of the satisfaction of leaving her speechless.

“Not quite good enough,” he yelled without looking back. “But come on, I’ll still buy you a drink.”

She was too prideful to take him up on that offer now, but with the sun beginning to dip behind the mountains at her back she had no choice but to return to town, so she trudged on, following him at a distance the rest of the way, scolding herself for being so easily deceived by his friendliness.

As soon as they reached the front gate, she took the steps leading up the hillside two at a time, leaving the dwarf behind without a parting word. It was only a short walk from the gate to the little cabin the Inquisition provided for her. The guards that had greeted her when she’d emerged in the morning were gone, replaced with fresh faces, each crossing an arm over his chest in salute as she approached. The gesture made her feel rather ridiculous, and after the tongue-lashing the dwarf had given her, she wondered what the two men really thought of her, beyond the show of respect that their position demanded.

Before she’d barely taken a step beyond the threshold, a messenger caught up with her to announce that the Ambassador required her presence.

“Tell the Ambassador that I’ll see her in an hour,” she replied.

The courier’s hand shot out to catch the door that she was closing on him. “Lady Montilyet was clear in her direction, Herald. She wanted to see you _immediately_.”

Evelyn let out an agitated groan. “Can’t I have a few minutes, at least?”

“Best go on now, my lady,” one of her guards urged.

“Allow the Herald a moment to herself,” the other interjected, “and I’ll escort her to the Ambassador personally.”

The messenger’s gaze danced between the two guards, but he must have been satisfied by the soldier’s assurance, because he turned and left.

Startled by the unexpected ally, Evelyn uttered her thanks. The soldier’s face split into a friendly grin before a reproachful glare from the other sent a silent warning over his breach of rank. He scrambled back into his position. She hovered in the doorway for a moment, feeling like an indeterminate fool, before facing him again. “I—I suppose let’s just go…”

***

By the time they reached the chantry, darkness had nearly settled upon Haven, and the building, which bustled with activity during the day, was empty except for the muffled sound of distant voices. Much to her relief, Chancellor Roderick was nowhere to be found. The sweet aroma of incense was a welcome reprieve from the fetid streets of the village, which to Evelyn reeked of stale sweat and stables. The torches that lined the wood-clad columns cast an inviting glow, illuminating the somber faces of the statues of Andraste and Maferath that stood at the distant end of the room. The guard led her down the length of the chapel toward a space at the back of the building that had been set up for Josephine to receive visiting dignitaries, but the sound of familiar voices carrying from the war room brought her to a stop.

“...you know the fact that she’s a mage is not going to win us many allies. _Don’t_ give me that look Leliana. It may not be right, but it is the world in which we live, and this rebellion certainly hasn’t improved their standing.”  
It was the Commander’s voice, and Evelyn understood immediately that _she_ was the subject of their conversation.

“It is as much an opportunity as it is an obstacle, Commander.” Leliana, at least, didn’t seem to be fazed by their prisoner's magical talents.

Evelyn’s escort had made it to the Ambassador’s office and rapped on the door. He motioned wildly for her to follow, but she waved him away. Josephine, having opened the door to find the soldier and the Herald engaged in this puzzling interplay, stepped out into the chapel to investigate. Evelyn didn’t care. She was desperate to hear the rest of the conversation.

“What do we know about the scars on her wrist?” the man continued. “If they’re self-inflicted...” his voice trailed off as he must have thought better than to pursue that train of thought. “A fragile mage could threaten this entire operation.”

She'd met Commander Rutherford for the first time earlier in the day. He’d offered greetings that seemed friendly enough, but after that he’d gone silent, leaving the talking to his female counterparts. Still, he certainly hadn’t displayed any hostility toward her, despite the fact that Cassandra introduced him as a former Templar, making the revulsion that could be heard in his tone now rather surprising. Her right hand slid unconsciously around her left wrist, fingers brushing over the raised pink lines to which he referred. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but it made perfect sense that they would have seen the scars as she lay in a comatose state. They were, after all, on the same hand that had received so much attention since the explosion.

She could feel the heat rising in her face as she exchanged a humiliated look with the Ambassador before averting her gaze to the floor.

The thick Nevarran accent of the Seeker responded. “I admit, Cullen, the scars are concerning...but she is nobility and there are familial connections that we might take advantage of. Right now we desperately need resources. We must extend our reach.”

“Mages from noble families give up their titles,” the Commander protested. “There’s no guarantee that she can even provide any of that.”

“Cullen may be right on that account,” the Spymaster added, “but we should know more soon. Josephine is looking into it as we speak.”

Evelyn stole a sideways glance at Josephine. The woman returned an apologetic look, but Evelyn found it hard to trust her own judgment of its sincerity. A sick feeling seized the pit of her stomach as understanding washed over her. They needed the mark upon her hand—she’d known that since the beginning of all this—but when Leliana and Cassandra had asked her to join the Inquisition she’d thought it was because they recognized her commitment to their mutual purpose. The Breach had to be closed, of course, but it was the war between templars and mages that had been the cause of the Conclave in the first place. But to these people, as she had been to so many others, she was nothing but an instrument. Besides the mark, they wanted her title, her family’s connections, and their money. She gnawed on her lip nervously. The Commander was right. She had nothing of worth to offer them, except for the power of the mark. Did that mean she would hang as soon as its usefulness was expended?

She looked down at the faded scars on her wrist. She hadn’t considered how her involvement in this might re-expose the rawest parts of her life, old hurts that she’d been trying to bury for years as well as newer ones that plagued her every waking moment and twisted her dreams into nightmares.

“And what of the title the people have given her? Are we wrong not to discourage it? She clearly isn’t comfortable with it.”

Leliana was the first to offer her opinion. “I think it will help us more than hurt us. Make no mistake, it won’t gain us any favor with the Chantry, but our influence with them is already ruined, and more importantly, the people are enthralled. It will draw the commoners to our cause, especially if it turns out she can play the part.”

“I don’t want to speak for her, but I think Josephine might place more importance on the Chantry’s position.” It was the Commander’s voice again.

“And what do you all think? Is this woman truly the Herald of Andraste?”

Nothing but silence followed the Seeker’s question.

A light touch at her elbow made Evelyn jump. It was Josephine.

“Lady Trevelyan,” she whispered, “I think it would be best that you return to your quarters now. We can save our conversation for another day.” She left no room for argument, and before Evelyn could open her mouth to object, her guard took her by the arm, practically dragging her to the front of the long room and back out into the cold.

Once outside, the soldier released his grip on her, extending a sympathetic look and an apology. Too dazed to respond to his kindness, she simply pulled her cloak more tightly around her to ward against the bitter wind that had picked up. They walked the rest of the way without a word, and before long he had delivered her to her door and resumed his post next to it.

***

A servant must have been sent to prepare the room for her arrival. The space was warm, thanks to the fire that was blazing in the hearth, and a plate of meats, cheeses and fruit had been set on the table. Her stomach rumbled hungrily at the sight, but the afternoon and evening had spoiled her desire to eat.

The quiet of the room weighed heavy upon her, making it impossible to dismiss the swarm of anxious thoughts from her mind. Leliana and Cassandra had eased her uncertainty for a time, but now the dreadful feeling returned with a vengeance. Unsure what else to do, and with no one to turn to, she pulled the sending stone from its place at her belt.

“Emile?”

Again, there was no answer. The way the beautiful stone shimmered as it caught the flickering light seemed an insult as fear and worry enveloped her. For a moment she thought she might lose her unsettled stomach and she raised her hand up to her mouth as if it would help hold the sickness back, but just as she did, that strange, tedious ache surged in her hand and forearm, the mark igniting in her palm. Fury mixed in with the anguish that had overcome her, and in a sudden fit of frustration she flung the stone across the room. It collided with the looking glass that hung over the washstand, sending a dozen jagged cracks shooting out over the mirror’s surface from the point of impact, and then clattered to the floor behind the bureau.

Feeling immediately like a foolish, petulant child, she hurried over to retrieve it.

The breaks in the mirror’s surface captured the firelight, reflecting it back even more brilliantly than the facets of the gemstone. It reminded her of a diamond ring that her mother used to wear. She watched the dazzling display for a moment, hypnotized. It was funny how such an indiscriminate thing could trigger a memory more than twenty years old. The dwarf’s words echoed in her head.

_You’re withering._

Her father had shouted the same words at her mother long ago, during an argument over her inability to strengthen the Trevelyan line with more children. Evelyn, no older than five or six, should have been asleep, but the feud had woken her so she’d tiptoed out into the hall to listen. It was the first of many incidents that she’d overheard, and may have been the mildest as well; as the years passed and her father’s desperation grew, so had his belligerence in his relationship with his wife.

_You’re withering,_ she heard again.

The mirror was there, just in front of her. She took a small step forward.

_How can they count on someone who’s already given up?_

Gulping down her hesitance, she inched closer to the dresser and peered into the glass. The face that stared back at her was hardly recognizable. Sallow skin stretched over the prominent cheekbones she’d inherited from her father’s side of the family, exacerbating the appearance of hollowed cheeks. Her eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles, the minuscule greenish-blue lines of blood vessels visible through the papery-thin skin below them. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, the irises dulled, lifeless. Lips, once full, were pale and course. Her fingers brushed the indentation that split her lower lip and then moved up to the scar on the right side of her face, close to her nose. This one had healed fairly well, now little more than a slim line that started at the center of the ridge and ended at the nostril.

She tilted her head to the side for a look at the scar at her throat. It was the most pronounced, running from the sensitive skin just below the curve of her jaw and down past the cartilage that formed the triangle of her neck.

Evelyn could still feel the cold tip of the blade against her skin, but it was the recollection of what they’d done before that set her lip to trembling.

She spun away from the wall to face the fire and squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the thoughts that threatened to make her relive the gruesome day all over again.


	6. Solace in Snow and Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: slightly graphic depiction of wounds

She sat on the bed for hours that night, her back resting against the headboard with her knees pulled up to her chest, her eyes fixated on the broken mirror across the room long after the light that had flickered in its reflection died out as the fire burned down to embers.

The fall of the Circle. Her flight to her family’s estate. The Templars. The time she spent hidden away in Hallin’s alienage. Emile’s plan for the Conclave. As she mulled over it all, fingers absently tracing over the dark mark on her hand while a dull ache throbbed up her arm, the fact that she should be dead ten times over was not lost on her.

Then the more recent events came to the forefront of her mind. Imprisonment and freedom following the explosion. The leaders of this fledgling organization and their distrust of her. It was all a frightening reminder of the gap in her memory that would have revealed exactly what had caused the blast and how she’d come to be involved in it. Solas, at least, had eased her fear about being possessed, but amnesia seemed too simple an explanation given the complexity of the magic that must have been used to create the Breach. 

If only she could remember what happened at the Temple, she could tell Cassandra and Leliana and perhaps earn their full confidence. She’d be fooling herself to say that their suspicion didn’t bother her. To be regarded as incapable or untrustworthy by her superiors was an unfamiliar, flustering feeling. She’d excelled in the Circle, her success fueled by her intense desire to please the Enchanters and sustained by an unquenching thirst for the approval she had so craved from her mother and father. If anything, though, the past months had demonstrated how sheltered her life had been both within the confines of Highcalere Hall and as a child of the nobility.

And she wasn’t equipped for this monumental task by any stretch of the imagination.

A single toll of the bell at the Chantry rang out from the top of the hill as she tried to think of what Emile would do if he was in her shoes. The First Enchanter was never one to _tell_ his students how to do something; instead, he challenged them, only giving them the foundation they needed and then allowing them to work things out on their own.

“Tests are good for us,” he’d always say. “They teach us what we need to know, if we’ve the wisdom to see it, and remind us that there is always more to learn.” It was an easy assertion to make for a man who seemed to know everything, a man who had a talent of steering events and people to his favor, ostensibly without lifting a finger himself. Manipulation wasn’t the proper word for it; guidance, perhaps, was a better descriptor. If the situation wasn’t so dire, she might have thought he was testing her now.

Evelyn remembered the night he’d told her he would leave Ostwick to attend the Conclave of First Enchanters in Val Royeaux. She’d begged him not to go, fearing what might happen in his absence. There was a tension that had formed at Highcalere between the mages and templars following the events in Kirkwall, and rather than letting up as time passed, it festered, even beginning to stoke friction amongst the mages themselves as ideologies that were once debated academically devolved into heated arguments, pitting those who once called themselves friends against one another. Emile was the only person who held any sway with Knight Commander Copeland, and if the pressure came to a head while he was gone, she had been certain terrible things would follow.

“We are closer to war than we’ve ever been, my dear.” He answered her protestations in that wise, calming tone he always managed, though his voice had become more crackly with age. “If we are to avoid it altogether, or limit its reach, someone must go to plant the seeds of reconciliation.”

And so he’d gone. Senior Enchanter Lydia had held the Circle together longer than Evelyn thought was possible, but in the end Evelyn had been right. 

The frigid air that had seeped through the cracks in the house sent a shudder down her spine. Her introspection disrupted, and having given up on sleep for the night, she got up from the bed and felt around in the darkness for her black woolen cloak, finally finding it slung over the back of the chair at the desk. As frozen fingers closed the silver clasp at her neck, an inadvertent glance at the mirror on the wall revived her memory of the marred, skeletal face she’d discovered in the looking glass mere hours ago.

Evelyn had never considered herself prone to vanity, but now she balked at the idea that she’d presented such a grotesque image to the world.

“The self-righteous will claim that inner beauty matters most, Evelyn, but daughters of the nobility know better.” She could hear her mother’s lecturing as clearly as if she was a little girl again, sitting at her mother’s feet with a brush in hand, mimicking the way the maid combed out the Lady’s exquisite chestnut hair.

Suddenly self-conscious, she tugged the hood of the cloak up over her head, though the gust of wind that assaulted her as she opened the door blew it right back off.

The Breach itself wasn’t visible through the clouds that hung low in the sky, but its light was still bright enough to cast an eerie glow over the fresh layer of snow that blanketed the sleeping village, painting the entire town in a greenish tinge that was as chilling as the mountain air.

The guard had found himself a sheltered spot beneath the eave of the roof, nestled up against a crate, his head hanging to the side at an awkward angle and his mouth drooping open as he snored softly, breath rising into the air as a fog with every exhalation. He’d removed his helmet and now hugged it into his chest, his gloved hands nestled into the pits of his arms for added warmth. His ears, cheeks, and the tip of his nose were flushed red as the wispy blonde facial hair that grew in patches did little to protect his pimply face from the cold. In spite of her melancholy spirit, the corners of her mouth quirked up in amusement at the sight of him. 

_One of us should get some rest, at least._

Her mind found the words of a spell that would warm his bones and keep the cold at bay, and with a flick of her wrist, a faint shimmer of energy which would have been imperceptible to the untrained eye rolled over him.

***

The village of Haven occupied an alpine meadow in the shadow of some of the highest peaks of the Frostback Mountains, probably a mile or two below the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The pattern of growth was evident in the construction and arrangement of the buildings, with the older structures encircling the chantry, which was situated at the crest of the hill against the towering mountains, and the newer ones radiating outward along the gentle slope from there. All of the buildings within the outermost palisade were newly built, a testament to the rapid expansion the town had experienced. Evelyn guessed that before the Hero had discovered the Temple, the number of residents likely hadn’t exceeded thirty or forty, but the town had exploded in the ten years since then as the faithful flocked to sojourn in the tomb of the Maker’s Bride.

Evelyn wandered aimlessly for a while, her own footsteps the first to disturb the snowfall down most of the narrower streets. It was dark and quiet, except for the sound of her boots crunching in the fluffy white powder and the murmur of the wind that hummed relentlessly in her ears, drowning out the apprehensive thoughts that inundated her mind. The tensity that had taken residence in the muscles of her neck and shoulders since she’d awakened on the prison floor finally began to subside.

Eventually the road took her to the western edge of the village, where the raucous din of the tavern grew louder with every step. Reluctant to abandon her respite so soon, she doubled back until she came to a set of steps that led east, likely to the chantry, judging from the path’s gradual incline. The bell chimed again, loud and clear.

Another short while later she came to a junction in the road and recognized the path to her right as the way to the chantry, the one to her left as the way to her quarters. Directly ahead, warm light shone like a beacon through the windows of three structures that were arranged around the dead-ended road. Besides the tavern and the occasional guard she passed, the buildings were the only other sign of activity she’d encountered at such a late hour.

Her curiosity piqued, Evelyn had crossed into the middle of the street when the door to one of the buildings opened and a woman stepped out. A sheen of sweat gleamed on her forehead and several long strands of silvery hair that had worked free from her cap were slicked against her damp skin. Absorbed in an effort to clean the grime from her fingernails with the bloodstained smock that she wore over her chantry robe, the sister hadn’t yet noticed the presence of the person that watched her from the street.

Evelyn had come to an immediate halt. After her latest run-in with Chancellor Roderick she’d done her best to avoid the clergy, operating under the assumption that most of them shared the Grand Chancellor’s repudiation of the Inquisition, and _especially_ its false Herald.

The nearest building was probably ten feet away; if she could just retreat slowly enough to use its shadow as cover _maybe_ she could—

“Who’s there?”

The crunch of the snow underfoot had given her away. The cleric looked up from her effort, her eyes narrowed into a squint as she struggled to make out the identity of the cloaked figure.

Shoulders slumped from this defeat, Evelyn pulled her hood off and started toward the woman.

“It’s only me. Er—Evelyn,” she called out. Did people even know her name, or did they only know her by the preposterous title that had been given to her? “Trevelyan...” she added awkwardly.

“Maker preserve me,” the sister muttered, casting her eyes up to the sky. With her plea, she let out the gasp of air she’d drawn in her fright. “Herald, you’ve nearly scared me to death!” 

“Evelyn,” she corrected. “Please call me Evelyn. I didn’t mean to alarm you...” Though the woman’s posture relaxed as she leaned against the doorframe for support, she still clutched at her heaving chest. Evelyn peeked past the sister’s shoulder to discover that the dwelling was being used as an infirmary. “Are these the injured from the Temple? How many are there?” 

Ignoring her request and her queries altogether, the woman, who seemed to have recovered rather quickly from her surprise, disappeared into the building, beckoning Evelyn to follow with a wave of her hand.

The air inside was sweltering. The space was divided into two rooms; one large open area lined with beds and a smaller room used for storage at the other end of the building. A fire was roaring in the hearth on the shared wall. Most of the beds were occupied with the bodies of injured soldiers, a few of them groaning from the pain of their afflictions, but most lying so still that Evelyn wondered if they even drew breath.

“What are you waiting for, Herald?” The sister pulled a smock from a hook on the wall and tossed it to her. She scrambled to catch it before it hit the ground. “Off with your cloak and put that on. You’ll help while Agatha’s gone.”

“Oh! No, Sister, really... I—I wouldn’t be much help... I’m not trained as a healer, you see...” But the woman had already grabbed a tray and hurried into the storeroom, so Evelyn obeyed. The dark stains on the apron were still wet and sticky, but she pulled it over her head nonetheless.

When the sister emerged, she shoved the tray, now crammed with supplies, into Evelyn’s arms and gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Not to worry, Herald. All you need for this are a couple of useful hands and a good strong stomach.”

So Evelyn followed her to their first patient, a middle-aged man lying motionless in a supine position. He looked to be asleep, his breathing shallow, and the majority of his midsection was wrapped in bandages that had turned an odious brownish-yellow color from the seepage of his wounds. The sister plucked a pair of scissors from the tray and set to work cutting the wraps with meticulous care. Beneath the outer layer of bandages was a large compress covering his abdomen, soaked with the same drainage, which the woman removed slowly and carefully.

The sight of the trauma that had been inflicted on the man’s body was enough to unhinge even those with the highest tolerance for butchery, but it was the putrid smell of the infection that had set in that made Evelyn turn away to stifle a reflexive gag.

The sister courteously gave her a few seconds to collect herself. 

“Come now, Herald. The bandages.”

With a deep, steadying breath, she turned back to the gruesome scene and placed the roll of cloth into the sister’s outstretched hand. The woman trimmed a larger piece to make a new dressing and placed it gingerly over the man’s ripped flesh.

Evelyn shifted her stance so that she could see over the sister’s shoulder to better observe.

“Aren’t you going to clean the wound?”

“No. The excretions are important for healing,” the sister responded without looking up from her task.

Evelyn’s eyes went round as she gawked at the woman in disbelief. “Sister, you can’t truly still believe… That approach to wound treatment has long been discredited. Everything I’ve read suggests that there is a better chance for survival if the wound is cleaned regularly and a treatment applied. Do you have any elfroot?”

“No, Herald. The stores are depleted.”

“Yarrow, then? Or even dandelion.” She started to set the tray down at the end of the bed so that she could go have a look in the storeroom. “With the proper combination of herbs we could make a—”

“Herald!” The sister finally stopped what she was doing and shot a rankled glare in the direction of the mage. “Didn’t you tell me you _weren’t_ trained as a healer? Now kindly pick that tray back up and help me finish tending to this soldier.”

The woman’s sharp tone reminded her of another priest’s stern voice, one she’d heard frequently in her childhood, though back then the reprimands had rarely, if ever, been directed at Evelyn.

“I did say that,” she countered, trying hard to control her own tone so as not to sound insolent, though she reluctantly did as she was told, “but I’ve studied this subject extensively and although I have little experience in the practical application of—”

Her defense was interrupted by the slamming of the door and a burst of cold that invaded the stagnant heat, ushering in two more shivering figures. One of them, a tall, middle aged man with a dark beard and shaved head stomped the snow off his boots while the other, a cleric who Evelyn assumed was Agatha, slipped quickly out of her cloak, discarding it to floor in her haste.

“Adan!” The sister shot up at once in her hurry to receive them. She shooed Evelyn to the side as she slipped past, nearly causing her to drop the entire tray. “You’ve brought the healing draughts?”

The look on Adan’s face was grim, but he nodded. “I’ve brought the last of them. Threnn is trying, Sister Pauline, but you know how difficult it’s been to source healing herbs at a cost that’s manageable. We won’t have enough for them all.”

Without delaying to offer Evelyn an introduction, Pauline steered Adan and Agatha straight past her to one of the other beds.

Evelyn looked down at the man they’d been tending.

“It seems you and I have been forgotten about,” she whispered to him. She set the heavy tray down at the foot of his bed, noticing for the first time the smoothness of the blanket where the bulk of a second leg should have been.

A labored breath, followed by a pained groan, escaped the man’s lips, and she was surprised to see that his eyes were open now, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Pauline had barely finished laying the first clean dressing over his wound when Adan had arrived, so she took it upon herself to cut several more rectangular pieces from the roll of cloth, then laid them gently over the swollen, decaying wound. The internal organs that were visible through the gaping hole, as well as the edges of the skin surrounding it, had turned black. At this point, she doubted even healing magic would save him.

Overwhelmed with a feeling of helplessness, she sank down onto the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands. The apprehension that she’d been able to shake for that brief but magnificent period of time was regaining its power over her. Before she could entirely lose herself again in the countless hypotheticals that she’d imagined, all of which ended in her failure, the twitch of the man’s fingers on the bed at her side drew her back to reality.

The hand that rested next to her on the coverlet was calloused and cracked, with angry red scars that had formed over the knuckles where the skin had been scraped off. She took it into her own hand and gave it a small squeeze, then brought her fingers up to feel his forehead. He was feverish, as she suspected he would be, although his lucidity defied her expectation. With the severity of his condition she presumed he’d be unconscious, but his eyes followed the movement of her arm, searching for the face of his caretaker, so she leaned in to meet his gaze. The ice-blue irises that looked out at her conveyed his fear and pain, but there was something else in them, too.

_Pleading_.

With considerable effort, he parted his dry, crusted lips.

“No... more...” 

The words were nearly incoherent from the raspiness of his voice. She glimpsed over her shoulder to see if the others had overheard, but they were all fussing over one of the other men.

“What if I could try to heal you? With magic?”

He rejected this idea with a tiny shake of his head.

“It hurts, I know. But are you sure?”

He didn’t have to respond. His weary eyes said it all. Without some intervention, he could languish in misery for days, maybe even a week or more. She knew it, and so did he.

He hadn’t the strength to end it himself, and the priestesses would leave it to the Maker.

She gave his hand another squeeze. “Just a little while longer then. Make your peace, soldier. I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

***

She guessed that she had two, maybe three, hours before dawn, so she wasted no time. As soon as she made it to her quarters she rooted through the chest of her belongings for the satchel she’d carried on the journey to the Temple and then grabbed the staff that stood against the wall. Her guard was still fast asleep, and though it pained her to disturb his slumber, she knew better than to leave the village without some kind of company, lest she be accused of trying to make a run for it. She gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.

It had no effect. He snoozed on, even as a little tickle that started deep in his throat intensified into a thunderous snore with a long, slow sleeping breath.

She knelt down next to him and gave him another shake, and then another with more force.

It was futile. Her patience running thin, she grabbed a chunk of skin on the back of his arm and gave it a hard squeeze between her thumb and forefinger.

This _did_ have the desired effect. 

He jolted upright with a yowl and scrambled to his feet, sending his helmet clattering down the pavered steps that led up to her cabin. “Fucking _shite_ what the blazes was that?” he cried, fixing her with an angry look as his opposite hand massaged the place on his arm where she’d pinched him.

“I’m sorry! _I’m sorry_!” She continued to apologize profusely as another string of curses flew from his mouth. “Shhh! Please... you really must try to be quiet or you’ll wake everyone up...”

“Oh, am I being too loud for you? You wake someone up _like that_ and expect him to be quiet as a lamb?”

“You have a fair point,” she admitted in a whisper, “but nothing else was working. You’re a heavy sleeper.”

He bit back his next angry retort. Evelyn saw his eyes roll with aggravation, but the irritation that showed on his face had softened. “Never mind it,” he said with a sigh as he descended the stairs to retrieve his helm. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. If the Commander knew he’d…” He paused when he saw the expectant look on her face. She knew that he would recognize the expression, the coy look that a girl got when she needed something from a man but would rather he offer his help before she actually had to ask for it. Not every man did, but he’d revealed his compassion with the kind words he’d given her just hours ago after he’d ushered her out of the chantry. His gaze flickered down to the satchel and the staff she carried. “What is it you’re planning, Herald?”

“I want to go to the Temple.”

“ _Now_?”

“Yes.”

“Out of the question. There could be more rifts up there… o-or demons.” His voice cracked and his cheeks flushed with the realization that he’d revealed his cowardice to a woman. Without his helmet on, it occurred to Evelyn for the first time how very young he looked. “And the Commander certainly wouldn’t want you out before dawn,” he added, in an effort to spare himself.

She held her marked hand up for him to see. “You forget I have _this_. If there are rifts nearby, I’ll know. And you can leave the Commander to me. We’ll be back before anyone notices we’re gone anyway.”  
“I still think it would be best to wait for—”

“Though if I’m not back quickly enough I suppose the soldier that guarded my door would be the first person the Commander would want to question. I’d hate to be a witness to his wrath when he finds out the Herald of Andraste slipped away while her guard was sleeping on duty…”

Knowing he’d been outplayed, whatever defiance he had left in him deflated, along with his posture.

“How are we going to get past the guards at the gate?”

“That will be easier than you think,” she said with a smile.


	7. Craven, but a Companion, Nonetheless

“Confinement, maybe? Garnished wages? Hard labor?”

The young soldier trotted along at Evelyn’s heel as she hastened up the path that wound into the mountain pass toward the Temple. It had taken him a while to realize that the punishment he faced for defying the Commander’s orders and allowing the Inquisition’s prize to leave Haven would most definitely be worse than the one he would have received for falling asleep on duty, so for the past twenty minutes he’d taken to rattling off all of the possible consequences he might face for his disobedience upon their return to Haven.

“...Diminished rations?” As if on cue, his stomach gurgled hungrily. “Maker, if I have to live off bread and water alone in this cold I’ll die.”

“You can have my rations,” she reassured him, only halfway paying attention to his nervous rambling as she peered through the snow-laden branches of fir and spruce that lined the road. She’d spotted plenty of familiar medicinal flora when she’d traveled the pass with the Seeker mere days ago, but now, with the fresh layer of snowfall that had gathered in heavy drifts against the trees, the plants were much more difficult to locate.

She gave up the search for now, knowing that the snow would hinder their trek when they were already short on time. Anyway, she remembered a hillside near one of the switchbacks in the road that was covered in more elfroot than they’d be able to carry. Even though it wasn’t what she’d come for, she was sure the apothecary would be grateful.

Pressing on, she turned her full attention back to her comrade.

“Public humiliation? Perhaps a few hours in the pillory or a flogging? I’m sure he’ll want to make a good example out of you.”

The humor she intended was entirely lost on the poor chap. He came to a halt, the color draining from his face so that it was as white as the snow that swirled around their ankles. “You don’t think he’ll _really_ …just for abandoning my post...?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly, immediately regretting that she hadn’t considered his worry in earnest, especially when he’d been the only one to show her any warmth. “It was only a joke.”

He didn’t look persuaded.

“I’m sorry,” she admitted, ducking her head so that she could meet the young man’s eyes, which he’d cast to the ground. “ _I_ am your post, am I not? And you haven’t abandoned me. This defiance is mine alone, and I won’t let you face the consequences for it. I do hold _some_ sway with them, you know.” Even as she spoke those last words, she had misgivings over their truthfulness, and a tiny bit of remorse over this spontaneous mission grew in her, too. But then she remembered the beseeching words of the dying soldier she’d tended, and her resolve steeled. 

Yes, she should have come by herself, but it was too late to change that. 

“If you don’t trust me in this, we can turn around right now, but know that I wouldn’t have asked you to come along if the purpose wasn’t important. The apothecary needs these herbs to treat the wounded.”

Her mention of his injured comrades managed to enkindle some courage in him. He perked up and took a decided step forward. “All right, if it’s for the injured… We’re already out here, anyway.”

“Good,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile, though the one he returned was tepid at best. “Come along, then. Let’s be quick so that we can get you back.”

The higher up the mountain they climbed, the more ferocious the wind became, every so often blowing with such a force that it looked like it might be snowing again. Even so, the going was easier now that there were no spirits and demons to battle, and although the bridges that collapsed in the aftermath of the explosion hadn’t been repaired yet, the debris had been cleared, undoubtedly to aid the Inquisition’s recovery efforts at the Temple. They made good time for a while, until the thinning air and frigid temperatures left them panting for breath and stumbling over frozen feet. The guard’s discomfort was evident in how quiet he’d become, though he didn’t voice any complaint. When he began to lag behind, Evelyn wordlessly summoned her magic to ward off the cold and invigorate their bodies with new strength.

They finally came to a sharp bend in the road just before it rose up a steep hill to the Inquisition’s forward camp. The road here had been constructed by digging into the side of the mountain, and a stone wall had been built in the curve to retain the soil that formed the bank on the other side. Whether due to its age or damage that had been inflicted in the explosion, the retainer was in such poor shape that eventually the soil would give way to a slide and bury the road, razing the outgrowth of elfroot along with it.

“This is where I saw them,” she told her companion as she hauled herself up onto the wall. She almost lost footing when one of the loose stones wobbled beneath her weight, but the guard moved quickly to place a steadying hand on her arm. Kneeling on the narrow surface, shakily trying to maintain her balance, she used her hand to brush some of the snow aside, revealing the bright green, ovate leaves of the hardy little plant. Silently praising her good memory, she stood back up.

“I’ll need to use magic,” she warned. He considered for a moment, but nodded his approval, though he practically tripped over himself as he took several long strides backward to distance himself from her.

She didn’t bother to wield her staff, instead extending her gloved hands out over the slope, her posture lengthening as her body fell into the position it naturally assumed when she invoked the magical power she possessed. The heat that she summoned coalesced at first in the core of her body, smothering every last trace of bitter chill from her bones before she willed it to the tips of her fingers and then directed it out over the slope. The snow that had fallen over a wide swath of ground began to melt away, dissolving into deep channels of liquid that cascaded down the stone wall and froze over again upon spilling into the roadway.

The guard’s eyes widened in wondrous curiosity at the sight before him as the hot air emanating from the woman’s hands mixed with cold, distorting the atmosphere with the undulating wisps of warped air that one would normally see rising from the flames of a campfire. 

As more of the snow melted, bits of mud and grass began to slide down with the slush as well. After a time, the entire bank was bared and a layer of ice three inches thick had solidified in the bend of the road. Still, it was a while longer before the mage relented.

“Take this,” she ordered when she’d finished, yanking the strap of the satchel over her head and offering it out to her companion as she sank to her knees to survey her work. She pressed a finger into the dirt to find that her magic had accomplished exactly what she’d intended. The heat had thawed the top layer of soil and the ground was as saturated as if it had just been soaked by a summer rainstorm. This would make it much easier to harvest the plants, roots and all.

She peered impatiently over her shoulder. The guard had still made no movement to relieve her of the bag as she’d asked. He stood at least ten feet away, slack-jawed, his round eyes roaming from the barren hillside to the iced-over road. She gave the object in her hand a little shake in another effort to capture his attention. The metal fasteners jangled, and his gaze moved up to meet her own, his expression no less bewildered, though he seemed to catch her meaning. He eased slowly toward her, making sure each foot was planted solidly on the slick ice before daring to move the other even a tiny bit forward.

“That was _amazing_ ,” he breathed as he neared her perch. It was the first sign of excitement she’d seen in him, and she hoped the distraction would help him forget his distress over the Commander. 

“That? That was nothing.”

He stretched a gloved hand out to retrieve the bag, but abruptly jerked away when his fingers brushed against her own.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your hands. Th-they’re cold. I thought they’d be hot. Like coals.”

“You’ve never seen magic before, have you?” 

“No,” he conceded. “Well...not ‘til this,” he added, with an uneasy look toward the Breach in the sky.

Evelyn laid the satchel down next to her and tugged at her gloves. Once they were off, she held her palms out to him. “Go on.”

The subsequent struggle was plain on his face. She could see the gears of his mind turning, see him wrangling with the choice, the tug-of-war between the curiosity that spurred him to give in and the ingrained fear of magic that urged him to keep a distance.

“I’m not going to harm you.” The words had become her manifesto, an assurance she’d had to make a hundred times since the Circle fell. Still, few believed her, and his hesitation was yet another reminder of how lonesome she felt. She took a ragged breath and started to turn back to her task.

“I know you won’t,” he said all at once, pulling at one of his own gloves.

Evelyn was so startled by his acceptance that she wasn’t sure how to respond, so she simply held her palms back out to him. He pressed his own bare hand against her marked one.

“Cold,” he mumbled.

She nodded as their eyes met. “Just like yours.” Then she conjured the warmth again. A child-like awe displaced the nervousness in his expression as he felt the tingle of heat radiating from her hand. His fascination brought a smile to her face.

“It’s just _incredible_.”

Evelyn snorted. “You’re probably the only person within a hundred miles of the Frostbacks who thinks so.”

He shook his head fervently. “I wouldn’t say that. You’re the _Herald of Andraste_. Your magic saved us.”

“You can’t _truly_ believe I’m the Herald of Andraste...”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ludicrous,” she snapped, ignoring the pulsing ache that started to nag at her palm. “You heard them last night... the Seeker and the Spymaster. The Commander. None of them actually believe it, either. It’s all a fiction they’re peddling to further the Inquisition’s standing. One I’m probably going to lose my head over.” She’d always been imaginative, and it was every bit as true now as disturbing images of this fate filled her mind.

“They just don’t know who you are,” the guard insisted, interrupting the ominous vision that she’d momentarily lost herself in.

“And _you_ do?”

His gaze drifted over to the slope covered in elfroot. “I think I do. You’ve shown me enough. Anyway, it’s easier for me to trust. The burden of all of this isn’t on my shoulders, like it is theirs. _Tell_ them. _Show_ them. Like you’re showing me now.”

Her brows dipped as she fixed him with a suspicious eye. “Have you been talking to the dwarf?”

A look of genuine confusion overcame him. “What dwarf?”

“Nevermind,” she said, facing the hillside, though the young man’s words continued to nag at her. “Come on, let’s get started.”

She grasped one of the plants at its base and pulled gently, a shiver of pleasure running through her as the root broke free, undamaged, from the dirt that was its anchor. She handed it off to the guard, who took it gingerly by the stem so as to avoid the muddy root.

“Why do you need the root?” he asked as he started a pile for their yield on top of the wall.

“You can use every part of the elfroot plant,” she explained as she worked. “Leaves, flowers, stems. But the root makes the most potent treatments and doesn’t require anything in the way of preparation like the others do. If you were wounded out in the wild, for example, you could ingest the root, or make a simple paste out of it to apply to superficial wounds. If you wanted to use the leaves or flowers, though, they’d need to be dried in order to be made into a tincture or infusion, and that can take weeks. And then you’d still need to make the concoction, which takes several _more_ weeks.” As she turned to hand him more of the plants she’d gathered, she caught the mocking grin that had spread across his face. “I suppose that’s more information than you cared to know about the medicinal properties of elfroot,” she acknowledged, the corners of her mouth curling up into a small smile. “What’s your name, anyway?”

“Jackson Mitter. At your service, my lady.”

She let the formality go without protest. “And how old are you, Jackson?”

“Seventeen.”

“That’s awfully young to be a soldier in an army,” she observed. “Do your superiors know your age?”

He shrugged. “They might have gotten the idea that I was a few years older.”

Evelyn cursed under her breath as the stem she clasped broke off at the base. She flung it over to him anyway and then set to digging the root out. “And what did your parents say when you told them you were off to become a soldier at such a young age?”

“Didn’t say anything, my lady, seeing as they’re dead. It’s been a long time, actually. Ten years I think.”

She paused and looked down at him. He’d busied himself with tidying the stack of plants they’d accumulated. “I’m sorry to hear that. Was it the Blight?” She’d heard plenty of heart-wrenching tales about the Blight. It was hard to believe that ten years had already passed. The night it ended had been a celebration even in Ostwick, Emile having summoned the entire Circle to the hall in the wee hours of the morning to announce that the Hero of Ferelden had slain the Archdemon.

Jackson nodded. “My aunt and uncle took us in—me and my siblings, I mean—but they already had a bunch of kids of their own. A couple years ago I overheard my uncle telling Aunt Caroline it was getting hard to feed everyone.”

“I see. So you left.”

“Worked as a farrier’s apprentice for a while, but couldn’t stand the master, even though the job paid better. Overheard a bunch of men in a tavern one night a few months ago. Said they were joining the Inquisition’s army, so I came with them.”

“And you know how to use a sword?” The weapon that hung at his side was nearly as big as he was.

“I didn’t, but they took me anyway. I’m learning, though. I’ve even run through drills with the Commander himself.” His chest puffed out proudly as his hand fell to the pommel of the sword.

His enthusiasm was endearing, but eagerness alone didn’t always translate into proficiency. She wondered how many more battles he would face as a grossly unskilled tenderfoot—how many more battles he would miraculously survive before his odds were up. It didn’t sit well with her that the Inquisition would knowingly recruit such inexperienced people to serve in its military force, but she kept that thought to herself as she snatched one last stem from the sodden soil. They had a large pile now, more than they could fit into the bag, so she scooted down the slope until she reached the wall, and, taking the hand Jackson offered her, hopped onto the road.

“Now we can head back,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Not just yet,” she replied as she wiped her muddy hands on her trousers. “We still have to go to the Temple.”

“The Temple?” he cried. “But it’s getting lighter out, and you got the plants you wanted. We need to go back or we’re going to get caught!”

Evelyn stuffed as much of the elfroot as she could into the satchel and slung it over her shoulder. The rest she gathered up in a bunch and held out to him. “Carry these,” she commanded. “There’s something else I need. Don’t worry, it will be quick.”

***

It was not far to the Temple from the forward camp, though the last time she passed through, her party had been so intent on their purpose in closing the Breach that she’d hardly had time to notice the utter devastation that surrounded her. Now, with the ruins awash in the sickly green light that was muted by clouds heavy with snow, and the cacophony of battle faded, being in this place was even more disconcerting. The Temple, which had only been restored by the Chantry within the past few years, was little more than a labyrinth of collapsed walls, the blast having decimated most of the structure and even a sizable chunk of the mountain itself.

The further into the ruins they roamed, the deeper the layer of soot that covered the ground. Evelyn tried to disregard the unsettling realization that with every step she took she trampled on the ashen remains of a person that once lived and breathed as she did now; some mage, some Templar, some Sister or Brother, some father, mother, daughter, or son, or perhaps even the remnants of Andraste herself, if the Hero’s tale was true.

“That’s where you fell out of the Fade,” Jackson said as they rounded another corner. “Where we found you.”

“We? You were there when I...appeared?”

He simply nodded, failing to grasp the interrogatory tone that indicated her hunger for more information.

“Well? Tell me what happened!”

“Erm...” he stuttered, looking slightly uncomfortable under the intensity of her stare. “That’s about the gist of it, really. There’s not much more to tell. Another one of those rifts appeared, except instead of the demons that had been pouring out of them, _you_ fell out, right onto your face. Within seconds the whole thing had vanished and you were unconscious.”

“And the woman? Did you see a woman behind me?”

“Just a glimpse. All of us did.”

“And? What did she look like?” 

“Didn’t look like anything. She was just...light. _Radiance_.”

The faraway look that he’d gotten in his eyes was broken by the sudden clattering of stone falling onto stone.

“What was that?” he yelped.

“Hush!” she hissed, her arm instinctively reaching out shepherd him behind her. The mark on her hand was quiet, so she was certain there wasn’t a rift, but her body went still as her senses sharpened to ascertain the threat. She scanned the rubble nearby, but the source of the noise had gone quiet, perhaps as spooked by their presence as they were of its own.

“ _I’m_ supposed to be protecting _you_ ,” Jackson whispered, a hint of wounded pride in his voice.

Evelyn brought her forefinger to her lips to shush him again and bent slowly down to pick up a rock, which she hurled in the direction the sound had come from. They heard the clamor again, only it seemed louder and closer now. In an instant, she’d cast her protective barrier around them and conjured a ball of flame to her fingertips.

“It sounds really big,” Jackson whined as he dropped the armful of elfroot he carried and drew his blade.

They were waiting for battle with bated breath when a high-pitched squeal pierced the silence and a pink-skinned nug emerged from the darkness, its bare, leathery snout fixed to ground, rooting through the Temple wreckage in search of sustenance.

Overcome with relief, she extinguished the fire she held in her hands as her companion took to giggling behind her. 

“I won’t tell anyone about this if you don’t,” he managed to say before dissolving into a fit of laughter. Perhaps he thought his lightheartedness would divert her attention from the timidity he’d just displayed, but Evelyn wasn’t fooled. His whole body shook, the steel of his sword clanging against the metal of his scabbard as he sheathed the weapon. Admittedly, her own heart was still racing from the adrenaline that rushed in her veins, and she was more than ready to end this business and get back to Haven.

“Help me with this,” she said as she gathered the elfroot that littered the stony Temple floor, her voice wavering a bit as a shallow breath caught in her throat.

***

The growth of felandaris on the mountaintop had proliferated even in the few days that had passed since she’d last been there, a testament to the fragility of the Veil in the area, and in her waning interest in being separated from the safety of town she stooped over the first shoots they came across. The twisted stems, bare of leaf and smothered in thorns, would have left her hand a bleeding mess if not for the leather gloves she wore. She crammed the sample she cut with her knife hastily into the bag slung over her shoulder, deftly changing the subject to announce that they were done when Jackson began to ask questions about the uses for _this_ plant. He was so pleased with this news that his curiosity about the prickly stalks ended there.

Their return to Haven was quicker than the ascent, as is usually the case. They’d wasted a fair bit of time, though, and Evelyn began to worry as the clouds thinned the further they descended, the pink-and-purple pastel sky hinting that the sun had already broken the horizon. Thankfully they passed no one on the Temple path. In fact, the first signs of a stirring town, the sporadic clink of Harritt’s hammer interspersed with the the soft whinnies of horses waiting for their morning grain, reached their ears long before their eyes. Harritt ceased work for a moment to nod a greeting in their direction as they passed. Jackson craned his neck so that he could see around the slight bend in the road to the yard where the Inquisition’s soldiers trained. Miraculously, neither the Commander nor the Lady Seeker occupied their usual positions near the canvas tents that had been set up for the army’s use, and only a few soldiers milled about the area, some of them finishing their breakfast while others adjusted their armor to prepare for their exercises. The look of elation on his face made her laugh.

“I told you I’d get you back, didn’t I?” she teased as they climbed the steps that led up to the front gate. “You get to your post. I’ll take the elfroot to Adan.” He pushed the armful of stems, by now a mangled mess, into her outstretched hands.

“ _Not_ so fast, Herald.”

Both their heads whipped around to find the source of the booming voice: Commander Rutherford. One of his hands held back the flap of the tent, the other rested on the pommel of his sword, his brows furrowed into the most furious look Evelyn had ever witnessed on a person. Jackson whimpered at her side. She shot him a piteous glance as guilt washed over her.

“Let me do the talking,” she instructed the boy as the Commander started angrily toward them.


End file.
